Blackmail
by redtaxi
Summary: A 'sweet' gift for Varjaks, as part of Broomy's ficathon 2014.


A sweet valentine's gift for Varjaks.

Happy Valentine's Day to one of my favourite sherlollian writers!

This story is greatly inspired and pays tribute to 'Front Page News', one of my favourite stories.

Enjoy the 'sweet' gift.

* * *

Molly was ignoring him.

Of that Sherlock was sure. Given that the time since his arrival to the lab was verging on seventy minutes and he was yet to receive a wave, an offer of coffee or even a flippant hello from the pathologist.

The back of her white washed coat was the only sight afforded to Sherlock, whose eyes darted more than twice, over to her, his own work put on hold as he studied her.

He watched with bated breath as suddenly, Molly gave a shy look over her shoulder. But the ponytail flicked back, its owner remaining rooted to her chair.

_How frustrating. _Sherlock growled, the ends of his chair made a squeak as he leaned over the bench to retrieve another slide.

She revealed nothing to him. Her hair [neatly tied], her clothes [recently bleached coat, frayed hems] suggested nothing to her grievances, but the hunch of her back spoke volumes, enough for even a simpleton to see.

With a watchful eye kept on her, Sherlock continued with his work unhappily. If Molly had cause to be annoyed with him, he rather she came out with it. He had grown accustomed to her boldness of late. He might have even become affectionate towards it-_Affectionate, too strong, warmed, he's warmed to it. _

The distraction was enough to take him away for just a moment when...

"Sherlock?" He jolted up in his chair, though Molly looked more startled at his reaction than he did.

He had his acidic rebuttal on tongue, a sweet mocking of her greeting ready but as ever, Molly beat him to the punch.

"Sherlock, someone dropped this by my flat last night." She spoke quick and grave, effectively clearing Sherlock's mind as she handed him a padded envelope.

He felt its weight before ripping it open, a bundle of glossy photographs fell into his palms.

A quick glance at Molly revealed her to be in obvious discomfort. It didn't take Sherlock long to work out why.

The focus was hardly ideal, the angle even more so, however through the blurred gaze of the lens, the identity of two figures, walking across from Gandor Street to Charleston Road, was as clear as day.

He flipped through the series of photographs, his and Molly's faces shone out as they walked, their hands dangling inches from each other.

Sherlock paused on one particularly incriminating photograph, where his own hands had disappeared out of shot, though their location was given away by Molly's sudden look of approval.

"Ah."

And he thought their 'secret' dinner had been cleverly planned. _Apparently not._

"I know we were being careful but clearly not." Molly echoed his exact concerns out loud, her face still rife with unease.

"When did you receive these?"

"Eight. Or whenever EastEnders was-err, round eight." She fumbled over her slip. "I heard a knock then found them on the doorstep."

"Came with this too." Molly fished out a crumpled piece of paper to hand to him.

PAY FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS OR COPIES WILL BE SENT TO THE PRESS

Sherlock snorted loudly, causing Molly to look up in confusion. Not the reaction she was expecting.

"Any respectable tabloid would pay double that for these." He explained, "Our blackmailer is selling himself short."

"Oh god, _blackmailer-_"

"Mm, yes. Most likely a desperate sort, _most are. _Male, evidently, the horrible penmanship shows to it. Someone who knows your schedule, but apparently knows very little of my personal wealth. Ought to have picked a higher demand, so clearly new to this kind of extortion. Oh no, we have an amateur entrepreneur on our hands." Sherlock finished his deduction with a look akin to boredom, abandoning the photographs onto the bench.

The case had nearly solved itself. _Boring._

Deflated, Sherlock returned to his work, but Molly was still by his side, staring at him with a lost expression.  
"What happens now?"

"He's practically left us a bread trail," Sherlock spoke to the microscope, his interest already wanning. "And with the seven CCTV cameras on your street, I'm certain Mycroft can deal with it within the hour. If not sooner, but middle age does get to us all." Sherlock added with puckish mirth.

Although, none of this visibly eased Molly's tension. Did he not just tell her that the blackmailer case was finished? She should be elated, or at least chuffed that he solved it that quickly.

"-Unless you _want_ to pay him?"

"You're not upset. At all."

He sniffed, "I'm disappointed if that helps, used to a better class of criminal-"

"No. No, I mean- you're not upset that someone caught us? "You're not _embarrassed_?" Her breath rushed out in a whisper.

_Embarrassed. _Her words did not compute so easily into his mind as he watched Molly crawl back into her shell.

Sherlock was stumped.

She wasn't looking on in anticipation of his laughs but rather his anger. Granted, it had been her idea to go out for dinner on Valentine's Day, she was perhaps feeling some guilt over it but it was he who made a big deal out of keeping it a secret.

It was he who meticulously planned their dinner, a secret location to where they would be secluded, away from all the meddling of their lives. As he did with most of their outings.

But his desire to do so was never secretive, it was a selfish desire. He wanted her, her time, for himself. And in doing so, he managed to convince the one person who counted that he was embarrassed of her, ashamed to be with her.

Sudden awkward with this realisation, Sherlock gaped openly, the words he wished to comfort her with, were quiet as they were absent, leaving Molly to shift self-consciously under his silence.

He cringed at the sound of his voice, almost cracking as it blurted out earnestly, "What's there to be embarrassed about?"

His minor discomposure was made up to him, as Molly's face erupted in a growing smile, warm and soft in its surprised delight.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock turned back to 'his' microscope.

"Molly, stop staring."

"Oh! Yes, of course. Sorry..."

* * *

The sight would look odd to the passerby if they walked by her nook, with Molly standing there, mouth agape as she stared at the contents of her desk.

To the casual eye, nothing was out of the ordinary (or vaguely interesting). A pile of coloured folders towered together, to loom over the scattered desk of pens, paperclips, gloves.

But Molly didn't see that, or the tattered tissue box and the figurine of a cherub kitten.

She was staring at an unfamiliar brown frame, placed in the midst of the chaos.

Although at first, she didn't recognise its thick edges, nor the glossy photograph they were encasing, the two figures, hand in hand, were as clear as day.

She couldn't help the lazy smile that split over her face.


End file.
